


Teatime

by Evilsnowswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chipped Cup, F/M, Fluff, Knight Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Light Angst, RCIJ 2018, Rumbelle Christmas in July, Rumbelle Christmas in July 2018, rcij
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 14:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15367164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilsnowswan/pseuds/Evilsnowswan
Summary: [RCIJ 2018] Rumbelle Christmas in July fic for RipperblackstaffPrompt: Sir Rumple, Storybrooke, epic, TLKSummary: When Isaac’s plan backfires, Rumple’s alter-ego ends up in Storybrooke in his place. Confused and lonely, Sir Rumple feels drawn to the beautiful and kind librarian in the Clock Tower.Beta: iatethebiscuit





	Teatime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RipperBlackstaff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipperBlackstaff/gifts).



The sun hadn’t yet risen, the early morning a silky, quiet blue. He liked the town best at this hour. The streets empty, the air fresh and crisp like clean linen. He liked walking past the closed workshops, the craftsmen and -women still sound asleep in their homes above, as he followed the taste of salt on his tongue and the sound of the surf to the shore to watch the sunrise hit the water and tint it golden red.

He wouldn’t linger long, just long enough to take a deep breath, then head back before the town rose to begin its day.

In daylight, the streets were narrow and busy. They were noisy, with the odd carriages, church bells, and traders calling out their wares in the marketplace. There were many food sellers, but none selling such fine things as hot sheep's feet and beef-ribs.

The town’s people were friendly enough, but he wasn’t one for mixing and mingling in the town square and the… tavern’s food choices were… limited.

With a sigh, Rumple pulled open the door and quickly slipped inside. Like the bell rung for curfew, this little bell lived by the clock, the first one up in the morning and the last one to go to bed. Her door was always open.

When he entered the library, she greeted him with a warm smile. He nodded and smiled back through the pain.

“Good morning!” She moved around her desk to meet him. “What can I do for you today?”

She was dressed like a spring day, her pretty dress mostly a light green. It mixed yellow with green, the two colors blending in a way that reminded him of the meadows back home. With a full skirt in a darker shade— loose and soft, but not so loose that she had to wear a hoop or a petticoat underneath — it had to be made of polished cotton or a similar material to give her the comfort and flexibility to walk around free and easy.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it? … Did you enjoy the beach? It’s peaceful out there this early.” She bounced on her toes slightly, her hands clasped in anticipation, and he couldn’t help but smile at her again — even though it felt like a fresh tear in his heart muscle. He had seen a beating heart outside a warm body before. They were vulnerable things.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Beautiful. Peaceful.”

He was brave. The bravest in three centuries, according to song or story shared over a fine brew or the prolific clicking of needlework, but in this moment, when she looked at him with those eyes as bright as cloudless sky, he felt nothing like it. Even in his protective armor, he shrank away from the big, the blue, the beautiful — feeling nothing more than the frightened spinner he’d once been. Once upon another lifetime. Before the War. Before he met her.

_Another her._

She waited for him to say something, to lift the silence from their shoulders.

“Miss–“ He took a step back and his eyes fell on the stack of books on her cart. He’d made a promise and he would make good on it. “May I assist the Lady with her books today?”

Her eyes followed his before they met. “Why yes, that would be very kind of you.” Her smile was a candle and he wanted to cup his hands around the flame as it flickered. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Miss.”

She turned to the cart, surveilled the volumes on it, and pushed it toward the back.

“Let’s start over here.”

 _Myths, Legends and Children's Tales_. These were popular with the townsfolk. Everyone loved a good story, he supposed. A glimpse at another reality, another what-if, another what-could-have-been. Or maybe they just liked to read about great adventures, imagining themselves the victorious heroes saving the day. Reading about slaying gruesome beasts in a book was far more entertaining than living through the real, bloody ordeal.

“Did you look into electricity some more?” She asked, taking the colorful book he offered, and crouched down to return it to its proper place. She restacked the shelves every morning. Handling books calmed her. That much was still true. “It took me a while to grasp at first too, but it’s quite useful.”

He nodded. _Electricity_ , as the people here called it, struck him as this realm’s particular kind of magic. It was strong and versatile, powering all kinds of machinery and, harnessed into pipes underground and wires overhead, it made people’s lives a whole lot easier.

“We depend on what serves us well – even if we don’t comprehend its true nature or value.”

Back home, magic came at a price. Never to be used for personal gain, it was a gift, a blessing bestowed upon a select few to do good and keep the darkness at bay. If you had magical ability, it became your calling; your duty to keep the peace, protect the innocent, and restore the balance – at all costs.

Even if it cost you or the people you loved dearly, you had to do the right thing.

“I–” She paused to look at him. “That’s an interesting thought. You get used to it all. Running water, light bulbs, obsolete buckets and candles and torches.” Looking down at the old leather-bound book in her hands, she gave a small laugh and shook her head. “I guess you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, huh?”

“A wise man counts his blessings–”

Even balancing on her toes, she couldn’t quite reach the top shelves, so he swiftly stepped up behind her to lend a hand with the collection of fairy folklore, feeling her brush against him as she gave up on her futile attempt at returning the heavy tome where it belonged. Had it been up to him, he would have dumped it in the lake and left it there to rot. The Fae were foul, ugly creatures. They didn’t deserve the innocent immortality of the written word, let alone their own.

She hummed in agreement, the low buzz magnified by his cuirass and shooting right through him. “And when you’re in a dark place, it’s important to look for the silver lining. Everybody needs that. Something to look forward to. Something to believe in.”

He listened. For her words as much as for the gaps between them, the little shaky breaths she drew.

Her hair smelled sweet and flowery, the air grew warm around them, and he didn’t feel quite so steady on his own two feet anymore.

“You should always have hope, right?” She asked in a small voice, looking straight ahead at the neat rows of books. Her back still pressed to him, he felt her shudder and squared his shoulders, planting his feet firmly on the ground.

Hope – even the idea of it was a very powerful thing. Which was why it ought not be given falsely or lightly. “A wise person once told me: Things never seem as bleak after a cup of tea,” he said.

She laughed, but it was a miserable, choked sound, like an unwanted litter of kittens drowned in a mill stream. When she turned to face him, her cheeks were wet, glistening where her tears had kissed them.

She quickly ran a hand over her face, erasing all traces as best she could. “Sorry.”

“No, Miss. It is I who owes the apology. The simple thought of an earnest cup of tea has always been a great source of comfort to my person, but I apologize if something I said or did has caused the Lady any distress or discomfort. It wasn’t my intention to upset you or harm you in any way.”

He searched her face anxiously.

“No, no. It’s okay.” She reached for a wobbly smile. “It’s not you. It’s…” She bit her lip and dropped her eyes to his, then looked away. “You know what, a nice hot cup of tea sounds divine right about now.”

He could feel the soft blush in her cheeks warm up his own, as she brushed past him.

“We can finish up here later. Books aren’t going anywhere,” she said brightly – if a little breathless, picking up a random book and placing it on a shelf as she passed. The emerald green spine looked perfectly out of place, wedged in between several blue ones that were all of the same height and bore the same gold lettering, clearly marking them as part of a series.

“Miss?” He made to hurry after her, then stopped, and took a deep breath.

She had already rushed on to the cooking area, a small space in the private quarters behind the front desk, reserved for preparing hot beverages and fixing quick meals. Pushed against the wall, the shelf there didn’t hold a single book. Instead it housed a silver tray, kettle, teapot and cups, matching saucers, a sugar bowl and a creamer, some plates and mismatched cutlery in an alepot, a large yellow bowl (fruit) and a small crystal one (candy), and a round, braided basket with a leather clasp to store her favorite baked treats from the tavern until she could tend to them.

She was especially fond of the sugary ones doused in cinnamon or chocolate, and would often set them on a saucer, add a slab of fresh butter, and stick them in the brick-shaped oven with the small door long enough to have the butter melt completely and mix with the sprinkles and spices.

Technically, eating or drinking was not allowed in the library, but, as was her nature, she would bend the rules for a little sweet indulgence every now and then – as long as her books remained safe and sound and were kept well away from possible spills or greasy crumbs.

Slowly following her path and setting the misplaced book right for her – right shelf, wrong row – he headed toward the unmistakable sounds of an early morning tea being prepared; fine china and silver tea spoons clicking, the kettle being filled and rinsed, something being ripped open.

When he arrived in the doorway, she had just set out two treats on saucers, and turned towards him with a shy smile, her thumb still pressed to her lips as she hunted down the last pristine sugar crystals stuck to her skin.

As he studied her, she cast her eyes down and released her thumb with a tiny popping sound. As if she had momentarily forgotten about her neat braid, she ran a hand through her hair, causing a few strands to escape and run wild.

“May I offer my services to power the small oven and oversee the Lady’s baked goods?” He offered, relieved to see her smile again. She seemed still a bit flustered, with her face flushed and the flyaway curls that framed it now, but her voice was calm and steady when she said, “But of course! Be my guest. It only has two dials, one for time and one for the temperature.”

He moved to stand next to her, watching her hands nearly slip on the butter dish and knife as she buttered what appeared to be two oversized scones. Judging by their sheer size, they had to be filled with cream _and_ jam.

She drew a sharp breath and he hastily looked away not to unsettle her again. The silver tea tray seemed a safe choice to focus all his attention on until she put down that knife, so he pretended to study it with great interest until she was done.

She had set the tray perfectly, of course. On the right, the necessary number of cups and saucers and teaspoons. Plates, flatware, and tea napkins placed on the left. A creamer for the milk, a sugar bowl, a pitcher of hot water – she knew he preferred weak tea. It was easier on his sleep – and a plate for lemon slices arranged on a wooden tray.

He smiled fondly, his heart thudding dully at the bittersweet familiarity of it all.

“Here you go. All set.” She handed him the scones, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she watched him set the timer and fuss over the correct cooking temperature.

“Oh! This reminds me… I asked Granny about it and she said she wouldn’t mind us using one of her fancy microwaves — as long as there was someone there to supervise.” She nibbled her bottom lip, another shade of soft pink gracing her cheeks as she added, “Never put anything metal in there. Unless you want to burn the house down.”

“No metal,” he echoed, glancing at her profile curiously.

Every curse could be broken. All magic came, not only with a price, but with a natural, built-in weakness. This realm’s magic seemed susceptible to metal. He could work with that. He’d seen a blacksmith’s workshop a little way from the tavern.

“Metal will break the small… electricity... ovens?”

They watched the scones move in slow circles through the milky glass of the door. The butter had started to melt. He could smell it – and strawberry jam.

“Yes.” She grinned at his partial reflection, her eyes full of mirth. “You can’t dry socks in there either.”

“Food only.” He chuckled.

“And tea. You can reheat your coffee or tea in a microwave,” she explained, but her expression told him she’d rather not. “I prefer mine the old-fashioned way though.” She nodded her head toward the kettle waiting in the corner. “What would you like today? Nothing like a fine cup of a classic bitter blend to start your day right, I’m sure, but may I remind you the world is full of wonderful, exciting possibilities, err, tea choices?”

“Why am I under the impression the fine Lady is mocking my refined taste?”

She laughed that laugh that made her eyes light up. He didn’t have to check, he just knew. If he turned his head to look at her now, her eyes would twinkle like the night sky and turn his heart to dust.

“Whichever blend is the Lady’s choice will do just fine. Thank you.” He managed to get the words past the lump in his throat, and she went and busied herself with the kettle and tea at once.

As he watched her fill the kettle with fresh water, he tightened the reins on his thoughts and firmly held on, so they would not stray into dangerous territory.

In his head, he repeated what he had learned about this realm’s water supply, the pipes, the plumbing. He counted the different types of ovens he had seen — small, large, wide, narrow, brick or steel, gas or electricity. She had explained to him that cooking on an open fire was prohibited by law. No open fires whatsoever — unless it was a bonfire at the beach or a… _Clambake_. Whatever that was.

“Granny only got another big delivery of fresh herbs and tea the other day. She gave me this wonderful blend. Mint and licorice. It’s amazing. You’re going to love it.”

With a noncommittal grunt, he snatched the towel from the workbench and opened the oven door. The butter popped and hissed loudly, releasing steam, but thankfully, her treats were not yet burned black. Not much anyway.

“Oops.” She put a finger to her lips. “Oh well, practice makes perfect. We need more practice.” She peered at the plates. “Still good. ...What do you think?”

“Just right.”

She beamed at him.

The tea kettle whistled from the stove, and she poured the heated water into the waiting pitcher and teapot.

“Wonderful!” Before she could protest, he set the scones and the teapot on the tray, and carried it out into the library.

The tables were for reading, for students working on their assignments, or people discussing the books they had read during their weekly gatherings, but it was too early in the day for any of that, and no one would come in here for at least another hour or two, so it was perfectly fine to use a table for their morning tea.

He carefully set down the tray and began setting the table.

Clean plates for the both of them. A knife on the right side of each plate and a fork on the left side; a teaspoon to the right of the knife. Sometimes the teaspoons were placed on the saucers, but he liked it better this way.

“Oh, but you didn’t have to do that!” She came bustling out of the cooking space, carrying more napkins and balancing a variety of jams and marmalades, cradled in her arms. “I could have… here, let me—”

He just shook his head, took the jars from her and placed them on the table in a neat row, then led her to her chair and pulled it out for her.

“My Lady.”

She pressed her lips together — no doubt to keep her teeth from assaulting them again— and he watched the delicate pink rise from her neck to her cheeks and temples, then travel to the tips of her ears, as she sat down.

“T-Thank you.”

There was that sweet scent again; that wonderful whiff of wildflowers in bloom that had him go weak at the knees.

“My pleasure.”

He rounded the table on wobbly legs and sank down on his own chair, his palms sweating and his mouth dry as sawdust. He cleared his throat roughly and glanced around the table. Perhaps tea would help.

“Tea for the Lady?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured their tea, and she rewarded him with another sunny smile as she took the cup he offered and blew at the hot liquid. “Thank you.”

“Lovely,” he said as he blew at his own tea, not sure whether he meant her or the hot drink. “This smells lovely.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Her blush spread as she ducked her head and lowered her cup and voice. “I told you, you’d like it.” The pink tint painting her cheeks deepened into a rich cherry red.

He raised his own cup and took a long sip, the hot liquid an instant relief on his mind, but agony on his throat.

“Just… lovely,” he croaked, and her bubbly laughter tickled his senses.

She sucked it back in – together with her next breath and bottom lip, muttering a hurried apology just above a mortified whisper, and he briefly wondered if she had bewitched him somehow, put a spell on him, or slipped a potion in his drink, because his head was suddenly as empty as his heart was full, feeling light where it felt heavy.

If he closed his eyes and forgot where he was for just a moment, it almost felt like home; she almost became the love of his life; and he almost was the happiest man alive.

 _Almost_.

They cut their scones in silence. It was mostly a comfortable one – or maybe they were both drawn to the quiet comfort of their private thoughts.

_He thought of home, of the wife and child left behind, dinner roasting on an open fire, the sound of the stream running past the cottage, and the wind getting caught in the dark pines, the air heady with their scent, warm earth and dry hay, and cricket song._

Perhaps, if he proved himself worthy in this test, he’d get it all back. He’d get her back.

“Oh!”

They both reached for the orange marmalade at the same time, and the moment of hopeful bliss ended when his hand touched hers.

“Please.” He gestured for her to go ahead, his eyes glued to the table.

It was old but solid, made from something durable like white or red oak. He ran his fingers along the wavy, open grain, feeling the uneven roughness that came with years of heavy use and little care, and studied the dark medullary rays – rings that almost looked like stains. These rings helped one distinguish oak from ash, which had a similar colour and grain, but–

“No, no. You first.”

Her hand on his nearly gave him a heart attack.

Head snapping up, he choked on thin air, and didn’t dare speak.

Her small hand was soft and warm. Her porcelain skin had been gently caressed by the sun, slightly fairer only where it couldn’t reach; a pale band on her finger telling tales of what – just recently– must have been.

He sat very still. The silence rushed in his ears.

“Rumple?”

He jerked his hand away and pushed to his feet, knocking over the pitcher and his cup of tea. The dark liquid spilled across the table and onto the floor, staining his pants and ruining the polished checkerboard pattern.

He stood and stared at the mess for a breathless second.

She hadn’t made a sound, just clapped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were so wide and so deep, he feared he might drown in them.

Tasting bile, he bent down and retrieved the cup on the next inhale, surprised, but relieved beyond measure that it hadn’t sustained damage in the fall and seemed in perfect condition, until he ran his thumb along the brim and came away with a nasty cut.

He turned the cup over in his hands to inspect it more closely. “I– I’m deeply sorry, My Lady, but… uh, it’s… chipped.”

She lowered her hands slowly, placed them flat on the table. Her lips a tight line, he watched with bated breath as they began to tremble. She blinked, opened her mouth–

“You… You can hardly see it!” His small smile, meant to reassure and appease, only brought spring tide to her eyes.

She got to her feet and walked toward him, head bowed and jaws set. She didn’t even lift her skirt to step over the unseemly spillage. If the dams broke now, the flood would kill them both.

He curled his hands protectively around the cup.

“Oh,” she breathed, the sound hanging in the small space left between them. “It’s … just a cup!” The words escaped her in a strangled sob as she threw herself into his arms to find shelter, burying her face in his neck.

Stunned to find he’d welcomed her there, he marvelled at the familiar warmth that spread through his body as he held her close. With her, he found that he could breathe easy again, his arms wrapped around her and the clean, flowery scent filling his nose. Sighing deeply, he tightened his grip on the cup handle and closed his eyes.

“R-umple?” Her low whisper against his ear was a dandelion dancing on the wind. It tickled his neck and tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes?”

She pulled back enough to let her hands sink to his shoulders, then searched his face, her eyes locking on his. Shivers rolled over him like waves over sandbanks as her hands wandered upward, reaching to cup his face.

She drew a sharp breath.

“That stupid cup!”

Her laugh was wet – and as salty as her lips, as she pressed them to his in a soul-searching kiss.

The world went white, the feeling of her lips on his the only thing tethering him to this world and keeping him in his body, as warm light rushed through them in a bright blast. The kiss deepened and it filled him to the brim – with joy, with love, with…

 _memories_.


End file.
